skyscraper
by marblesharp
Summary: From mountains of rubble, a skyscraper. Liesel Meminger before/during/after the bombing of Molching, Germany. songfic.


AN: Title and breaks are from Demi Lovato's song and obviously belong to her. Markus Zusak owns _The Book Thief_. Please tell me what you think!

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><p>skyscraper<p>

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><p><em>Skies are crying. I am watching, catching teardrops in my hands.<em>

It rained the night the bombs dropped. The clouds were crying water, then fire.

The basement walls stayed firm while the ceiling threatened to collapse on me.

Mama and Papa were sleeping upstairs.

Before everything, Mama's snores permeated through the mattress and floor between us. I could still hear them after the first explosion down the street.

Then, soon after the first few that got closer and closer, there was a deafening thunder above me.

Bits of cement dripped onto my open book, wedging into the crack between the ink-scrawled pages. I had been rereading the part about Papa returning from war with numerous stories and a broken leg.

I was proud when I first finished my autobiography, but eager to go through and check for mistakes. _The Book Thief_ was partially edited at the booming noise that wrecked the house.

At least it was finished.

* * *

><p><em>Only silence as its ending, like we never had a chance.<em>

If I survived, then Papa and Mama might have as well. That's what I kept thinking buried under debris in the basement. It sounds miserably uncomfortable, and it was.

After the last dying breaths of crumbling buildings, it stopped raining as well. I was surprised at how quiet everything was. Not peaceful. I had already learned that quiet didn't always mean peaceful.

The only noise that interrupted the dead silence was when I stirred, trying to wriggle into a better position. But I was encased. I couldn't see the dripping sun that Max had painted on the far wall so I knew I was trapped.

Hours passed and it must have been light enough to see the wreckage because I heard the faint voices of people sifting through rubble.

I waited for the LSE. That was Papa's position when he served in the war again. _Luftwaffe Sondereinheit_ meant Air Raid Special Unit but they were really _Leichensammler Einheit_.

Dead Body Collectors.

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><p><em>As the smoke clears, I awaken and untangle you from me.<em>

I don't remember being disinterred from the basement.

I was staggering up my obliterated street, LSE men calling after me while bombs resonated in my ears and snowflakes burned my skin. It was raining water before.

"You're just in shock, my girl. It's just shock." A man held my arm loosely in his dusty hand. His fingers encircled my forearm. "You're going to be fine."

"What happened? Is this still Himmel Street?" Himmel Street meant home: Papa, Mama, Rudy, all of the books.

"Yes. This is Himmel," answered the LSE man. "You got bombed, my girl."

He said more, but my own mouth wandered off. Then I was on the snow-covered ground. It was only October. The ash sifted beneath me.

I stared at my bleeding hand and the black book clutched in it. _The Book Thief_. That was me.

I remember finding the accordion and then my best friend Rudy Steiner. One was destroyed beyond repair.

"God, Rudy…"

I kissed him but I could not say goodbye.

Laid out on the gravel of Himmel Street, Hans and Rosa Hubermann.

That's my mama. That's my papa. I said that once in my mind and it was enough.

I had rambled to their corpses, forgetting to tell them how much I loved them.

I asked for Papa's accordion in its damaged case and set it beside him. For a fleeting moment, among the wreckage of my town, Papa stood and played. No one could play like him. But then he stopped. His accordion bellows were empty of air. Nothing came in and nothing came out.

I wept and was escorted away.

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><p><em>All my windows still are broken, but I'm standing on my feet.<em>

At first, Molching wasn't home without Himmel Street. It wasn't home without Papa, Mama, Rudy, all of the books.

The Hermanns took me in after the bombings. Frau Ilsa Hermann provided me with the books from her library, but I couldn't bring myself to read. Or eat or bathe. I slept a lot.

I helped Rudy's father in his tailor shop. One day we got a customer, only he wasn't looking to buy a suit.

"Is there someone here by the name of Liesel Meminger?"

Max Vandenburg had survived Dachau after it was liberated.

Already sobbing, I ran to him from behind the counter and threw my arms around his neck, knocking him over. We stayed there while Herr Steiner brought out small cups of water.

_The Book Thief_ was missing. Whenever I thought about it, it was somewhere in the rubble, its black cover coated with ash. I tried to find it but nothing remained of Himmel Street, not even the rubble. It's still missing.

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><p><em>Do you have to make me feel like there's nothing left of me?<em>

"You should do it again," my husband tells me. Max. "Write, I mean."

I wince.

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><p><em>You can take everything I have, you can break everything I am, like I'm made of glass, like I'm made of paper.<em>

Before I pick up the pen, before I let it kiss the blank paper set out in front of me, I wonder if this is what I really want.

I think of Ilsa Hermann's library back in Molching, the hate and the love I still feel for words.

I think of _The Book Thief_ and what happened after I finished it.

I think of Max and his stories to me. _The Standover Man_._ The Word Shaker. _I lost them in the rubble.

Like everything else.

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><p><em>Go on and try to tear me down. I will be rising from the ground, like a skyscraper.<em>

It's surprising that the words flow so easily again.

With my old, wrinkled hands, I assumed I'd be a little rusty after all these years, even preparing to scrap several sheets and start over. But I don't mess up any of the pages.

Instead, they grow into a neat stack. The sunlight from the open window above me lightens it, makes it sparkle. A breeze blows across my hair every so often but doesn't disturb my little white building.

Ghosts of smoking rubble mountains are piled around the study, but my stack of ink-scrawled pages stands higher.

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><p><em>Yeah, it's a long way down, but I am closer to the clouds up here.<em>


End file.
